


Little Tin Girl

by KarmaHazel



Category: The Selection Series - Kiera Cass
Genre: Coming Out, F/F, F/M, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 07:11:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7304590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarmaHazel/pseuds/KarmaHazel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eadlyn's always copied the women she loves, but what should she do when they hate a part of her that defines her happiness?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Tin Girl

**Author's Note:**

> I originally received an anonymous prompt on my Selection blog on tumblr, eadlynsgirls, and then this developed into something a little longer. First of two chapters, probably. Some facts aren't totally aligned with what's canon, but hey, that's the beauty of fanfiction.

Ever since I can remember, I have admired other girls. This comes as a surprise to many, as ever since I can remember, I have also avoided girls in my own age bracket. I suppose this derives from having no sisters, as well as Josie Woodwork, the little copycat, taking full advantage (more than what was welcome, actually) of the palace she grew up in. But having Mom, Miss Lucy, Miss Marlee, Aunt May and even Lady Brice as role models left me in awe of how beautiful girls could be. Growing up I would often try to copy their movements; watching them walk, pick up the skirts of their dresses without wrinkling them, smiling or laughing, or even gracefully tucking away a strand of hair. I wanted, needed, to be the best daughter and Heir I could, and mimicking the women in the palace was the best way I knew how.

When I was fourteen, my family and I travelled to France to celebrate Princess Camille’s birthday. There was an extravagant ball being thrown by the Queen, and diplomats and royals from all over the globe were invited. Princes, both my age and not, bombarded me with requests for a dance or my hand in marriage. Exhausted from the niceties and the sweaty palms, I excused myself from the party. Watching Ahren dance with Camille, their eyes and hands stuck to each other like bubblegum to a shoe, made my stomach squirm. It was only a matter of minutes after lying down on the bed provided for me that I passed out.

It was the early hours of the morning when I woke up. The sun had not yet risen, and yet, there was no chance of me returning to sleep. I stood up, sliding my still tender feet into slippers, and wandered around for a few minutes before happening across the palace kitchens. I paused outside the doors; already, at this hour, I could hear voices inside. But it was an odd collection of voices – two of them, hushes, and I could hear muffled cries. Panicked, I located the closest guard, and managed to tell him what was up in an awkward combination of English and vague hand gestures. The guard, now gripping his sword, lead me to the kitchens and burst open the door – only to find too maids, their clothes askew, their cheeks flushed and their lips swollen. The resulting din awoke many of the guests, and the next day the maids were flogged and dismissed. Nobody said it out loud, but I saw the clenched teeth and the uncomfortable look in their eyes; not only from the French, but the Germans, the Swendish, and my own parents. I looked to them, and mimicked their expression. Girl loved boy. That was happily ever after.

When I was sixteen, both myself and my twin had a birthday kiss. It wasn’t my first, but I was determined nonetheless. I had singled out the German heir as my target, spending half the night dancing with him, fluttering my eyelashes, laughing sweetly and flicking my hair like Aunt May taught me to. We snuck off just before the clock chimed midnight, and I pressed my lips to his. His lips, experienced, were firm, his face angular, his hands roaming. It felt nice, but I didn’t want it like that, not from him. Late that evening, I slid into a warm bathtub and cried, scrubbing my lips and my breasts and my hips to try get the feeling of him off of me.

Later that night, Ahren slipped into my room. He spoke of a night spend with his princess, Camille, how they danced half the night away, how she laughed and fluttered her eyelashes and flicked her hair just so, how they slipped away and pressed kisses against each other until their lips hurt. He spoke of how wonderful it was, of how nervous he was, of how exciting it would be. He asked of the German heir, and I forced a smile and told Ahren of his form kisses, of his roaming hands. He said, not all boys. He said, you will find someone who you want to sneak away with to kiss. I remember the French maids. I do not say anything. Girl chases boy, remember?

When I am eighteen, my parents come to me. There is unrest in the country, they say. We need a distraction. I remember the boy with the firm kisses and the roaming hands. I remember the boy with his books, the one who is nothing but rude to me, the son of Miss Marlee. I remember Ahren gushing about Camille. I raise my head and my voice.

“Get out!” I demand. “Get! Out!”

Later that night, Neena tries to help me with my parent’s suggestion. “What if you said you were already in love with somebody? Perhaps a guard?”

No, I think. Never.

Ahren is next. I step into his office, only to find him writing a letter to his beloved. He scowls up at me, but his gaze softens as I explain our parent’s plan to turn my life into a reality TV show. His eyes search mine, and I know, as easily as I can read any emotion in him, that he sees I am terrified. Not irritated or angry. Not outraged or repulsed. I am scared.

“You can make conditions, Eady,” Ahren suggests. Conditions. Negotiate. 

It feels like I am on a rollercoaster. Mom and dad announcing the Selection was like being pushed to the front of the line, and now it felt like I am sitting in the car as it slowly starts to move up into the air. I can do this. I’m not going to die.

“You can request almost anything,” he points out.

The cart gets pushed over the first loop, and I feel my stomach plummet. Almost. That’s the catch, isn’t it?

I bite back a grimace. I have to try. I will be the first woman to hold the Crown to myself. I defied the fairytale from the beginning.


End file.
